


the microscope/the dagger

by orphan_account



Series: Umbrella Protégé [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anderson needs love too, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Oneshot, Short, maybe au, who knows - Freeform, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson was the best- before Sherlock came. Now Anderson's been delegated to labmonkey as Sherlock gathers his own evidence and becomes the Metro police force's star consulting detective. An eye for detail and an extensive forensics knowledge isn't enough any more for Anderson- his work pales in comparison to the freak's frenetic genius.</p><p>It seems hopeless until Anderson finds himself recruited for an undisclosed job by a man who calls himself Mycroft.</p><p>In which Anderson attempts observation and Mycroft meddles.</p><p>(First sh fic. Written near midnight on an iPod. Noticed a lack of Anderson so...here.</p><p>Meant for fun!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the microscope/the dagger

the microscope, the dagger

\------

Anderson is the best there is.

His pale hands weave tales from hair follicles, paint tapestries of crime from blood samples. 

Anderson is barely thirty but he is the best there is at blood splatter analysis. His eyes probe and find. Computer audio analysis? No problem. A double-threat- excellent crime scene investigator, even better lab monkey. Lestrade has even mentioned the potential of Anderson as a detective- his eyes are so keen, his mind nimble and scurrying, if limited in its scope.

He is crucial to the Metropolitan police.

Or was. Until Sherlock.

Anderson has no fucking clue at all how Holmes does it. People shouldn't- God, they can't possibly- be convicted without DNA evidence, but damn if Holmes hasn't accomplished that...well, hundreds of times. Blood stains don't matter anymore. Evidence doesn't matter.

Sherlock knows- his mind finds evidence that could be circumstantial at best, but grabs it and seeks out more, and soon there's a litany of evidence- forgotten tidbits and scuffs and phone calls and receipts and oh, look, a motive, and a suspect

and Anderson is left sitting in the lab like a five year old instead of a man who graduated University with a master's and PhD at twenty-five.

A hate festers and something wriggles within Anderson- the serpent of jealousy, perhaps- and once again he finds himself recalling the praise lavished on him before. In his teen years, while he was taking college Physics and reading Keynes, he was called a prodigy. In University, a genius, when he mastered in Forensic Pathology and got a Forensic Science PhD.

And now he is called-

His thoughts are interrupted brusquely by a squeaky door hinge. A loud creak sounds out and Anderson knows the lab door is fully opened.

"No, Lestrade," a voice calls irritably from the lab entrance. "I've told you-...Ah. Here he is."

The voice isn't Holmes', for sure, though it does have a tinge of pomp. Anderson stares intently at the microscope slides, pretending to be fascinated with 'blood of undetermined origin' (it was a mixture of rabbit and horse blood- Lestrade had blanked out Anderson's explanation beyond the word 'platelets'.) 

"Yeah," and Lestrade sounds- proud? as he says- "That's Anderson, finest Forensic in all of England."

Anderson doesn't bother turning around, and the mysterious voice speaks again, with an amused lilt- "Just Anderson?"

Anderson can practically hear Lestrade's grin. "To everyone. Nobody knows his name."

"Excluding the payroll officials. And the cafeteria servers. And all of my superiors." Anderson can practically hear the childish pettiness in his own voice. Done prolonging the inevitable, he swivels around in his chair.

The darkened lab is only brightened by the dim light of computer screens and a dim red light at the far back of the lab- it indicates the darkroom is developing photographs. (There are digital copies, sure, but there's something about the smell of processing chemicals in the morning...) The hallway outside the lab is dark, then- behind Lestrade and the stranger's figures, no light shines.

"What-" Anderson begins.

"2:34 A.M.," the stranger helpfully supplies. Anderson looks him over in a bored manner; larger, brown hair, weird face.

Something clouds over the man's face, and he turns to Lestrade abruptly. "You'll have to exit the room, Inspector. Government business."

Lestrade opens his mouth, makes a conflicted face, and then snaps his jaws shut. The stranger unceremoniously slams the door behind the DI's retreating back.

"My name is Mycroft. A pleasure, Anderson."

"That's strange for a last name," Anderson says dully, and regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. What a dumb thing to say. To Mycroft's credit, though, he merely gives a curious half-smile.

"Indeed it is." The man shoves his hands in his coat and looks at Anderson calmly.

"I'm here looking for a forensics specialist. I've been jumping around England looking- you are on the list to visit. I'm here to visit and just get a feel for you."

Anderson's face is uncomprehending. Is this man being deliberately obtuse?

The man smiles, but it's dry and discomfiting. "Consider this your preliminary...Anderson. After this comes the job interview. Then callbacks. Then, if you're exceptional enough...the job is yours."

No pressure, Anderson thinks, suddenly feeling ill. The man- Mycroft, Anderson reminds himself- apparently notices this, because he gives a smile that, this time, is actually a little disarming. "No worries, Anderson. I'm just a lowly interviewer. And I just want to ask you a few questions."

Anderson, unaware he is talking to who is effectively the entire British Government, calms a little, and answers the following queries fairly admirably.

They're boring questions- about qualifications, about working for Lestrade, about family- and Anderson finally tires of them and asks, a little agitated, if Mycroft didn't already know these things- if he had not at least researched the basics of his potential hirees.

As soon as Anderson says this there is and awkward silence. In the dark-haired man's mind, he sees a sudden vision of Mycroft scribbling down 'DIFFICULT TO WORK WITH AND UNDERQUALIFIED' on his paper in large, tacky block letters.

He does not expect Mycroft to grin widely.

"A fair question. One more thing, if I might ask."

Anderson says nothing. He is resigned to the fact that he will not get this assignment. Whatever it actually is.

"I want you to look at me and tell me what you see."

A sudden, icy anger runs through Anderson. "I'm not a cold reader," he says. "That would be Mr. Holmes' shtick. I'm afraid you're talking to the wrong man." The amount of venom Anderson manages to put in 'Mr. Holmes' impresses Mycroft secretly.

"No cold reading, Mr. Anderson. Just asking you to tell me what you observe. And please think, and draw conclusions."

The second part would not go well, but Anderson could do the first easily. "Okay. I see...an expensive navy suit, a concealed handgun on your right hip, leather loafers. I see two distinct spatters on your left heel, and they are oak brown color. Your collar is ironed and has red hair on the edge."

Mycroft watches as Anderson continues plainly. "You have paper in your pocket. Your hair is beginning to be a little more sparse. You have an earpiece in your left ear. You have..."

Mycroft nods and waits. "...faxed ligature marks on your neck...? Detached earlobes? Scarring on your left thumb from a burn? I'm sorry, I don't really understand what you want me to do. It would be a waste of your time to continue this."

Mycroft shakes his head. "You're a forensic scientist. Not a detective. I didn't expect you to do much more than that. Now...draw conclusions."

Anderson freezes.

"Well. From your suit...er, from your stature...uh..."

Anderson clenches his hands and then stretches his fingers out- a nervous habit. "You like navy?" is all he says after a thirty second pause.

Mycroft coughs to cover up a snicker. "My assistant actually picked the suit. You can't think of anything else?"

Anderson stands silent, before going stark white. "Oh. The fixer."

"I'm sorry?"

"I need to wash the fixer off of the prints in the darkroom. Ideally I should have been in the room the entire time with the prints, but things come up." Anderson gives Mycroft a blank look, thus indicating the 'thing' that came up, before turning on his heel to head to the darkroom.

He speaks as he withdraws. "The scarring on the left thumb is consistent with superficial burns over a long period. A cigarette habit, likely kicked only a week ago- bleaching probably keeps your teeth white but your fingers are still stained.The ligature marks are probably from two to three months ago. An attempt on your life, not a freaky fetish. The marks are too..." Anderson trailed off, bored, pausing to turn off a computer screen. "But anyone could have told you-"

Anderson halts. "Oh. Oh no."

"Yes?" ventures Mycroft, amused.

"Ligature marks, death attempt. You're somebody important, why would you have an assistant- that suit is- you're-"

As Anderson's body turns rigid Mycroft smiles. "I knew you don't do well under pressure, so I fibbed just a little- didn't want to intimidate you. I knew that before I came. I actually know everything about you. I know everything."

Mycroft grabs his official identification card from his pocket- an impressive one, with lots of grand titles and important organizations on it- and kicks it across the floor. He can get another one. It skids to a stop next to the forensic's left shoe.

"Hope your prints come out well, Quinn," Mycroft says coolly before leaving quietly, the door gliding shut behind him and, surprisingly, not creaking at all.

\----

"He figured out I was important- but, that was supposed to happen." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, fiddling with his watch distractedly. "He doesn't realize just how much. He is under the impression my last name is Mycroft. Not Holmes."

Mycroft pauses. "He also doesn't know that he is, in fact, the only person I am interviewing."

Lestrade pauses and sets down his coffee cup. The two men face each over across the DI's expansive desk. "Hell. I didn't know that either. Why?"

"His Uni grades- all As, perfect GPA. His work on noteworthy cases. His ability to work with people like  
Sherlock-" at Greg's suspicious look, "even if they don't work together nicely. But mostly his thoroughness. He's good at legwork. And he has an exceptional memory."

"To be sure, though, I made sure all police departments in our United Kingdom had mandatory psych evaluations, which would include IQ tests. Your Anderson scored quite passably. Passably enough that his scores caught the eye of several people. Including myself."

Lestrade merely looked tired, now, waiting for Mycroft to finish. "And?"

"He's not being used the right way. If he weren't playing second fiddle to my lovely brother, I know he would be considered extremely exceptional. Of course, he seems stupid compared to Sherlock."

Lestrade stands up. "I don't appreciate you insulting the best damn Forensics expert I've ever had."

Mycroft reclines, looking bored, and continues as if he were uninterrupted. "But that's because you're comparing my brother to someone. I've read all of Anderson's records. Apparently one of his teachers in secondary realized he likely had photographic memory."

"That doesn't matter and you know it, Mycroft. A mind like a camera doesn't do anything. Putting together the pieces is what counts."

"Now who's insulting who?" Mycroft asks coquettishly, but he smiles and goes on. "That was precisely my point, Lestrade. If he were taught how to do that- with his eye for detail, with his skill- he could...Well. He could never rival Sherlock. But he could be of use."

"What are you getting at?" Lestrade snaps. Behind him the clock reads 3:30.

Mycroft rests his chin in his hands. "None of your concern right now, inspector. I know it's getting late- I'll let you go, now." He rises up from the chair and gives a triumphant grin before leaving.

\----


End file.
